Stirrups

by Torna McCutchins

  “You’re digging your lost loves’ grave. You can say and do what you want. I tried to help Toby on the other end. I wanted to see if I could help on this one.”

  I extended my hand without thinking. It was filthy and greasy and long past feminine and when I tried to retrieve it he clutched it. He’d shaken thousands and waited for my grip. When I gave it like a man he said “ah yes, Laney McComb. I’m Flain, Flain Youngman from the clinic.”

  Without thinking my mind was drenched with emotion and I wrapped my arms around him. Held him tight and he allowed it. Solid body from labor and fitness. Flain hugged me back, pulled in my head, and in a second we were both crying. The embrace went on and I said “thank you, thank you” and he replied “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”

  When we parted I asked “is it true?”

  He replied “is what true?”

  “The tow truck driver said the way his car landed wasn’t how he found it. That it had to be flipped over. Did you flip it to try and help him?”

  He blushed through his tears and responded: “its angle of repose was in my favor. I was able to free him from under it. But he was gone. Toby was gone. It did no good whatsoever.”

  “You tried.”

  “God got there before me.”

  I thought about my dream when Dr. Youngman said that. “How did you do it Dr. Youngman? It was in a ravine overturned?”

  “Training. Good leverage. Using the landscape. Years of lifting shit. Hell Laney, I don’t know. Before I went to medical school I owned a little cross-tie business. The railroads, of course, were my customers. I loaded thousands, tens of thousands. By hand and machine and wit. Even after all that in emergency rooms I’ve seen moms and little old ladies who’ve flipped cars and beams off children. And call me Flain. Please call me Flain.”

  “You deserve to be called Doctor. You’ve earned it. So many don’t.”

  He smiled: “but they get it anyway.”

  “How exactly have you stepped out of bounds? Didn’t you say you’ve been nosey?”

  “Oh. The Sheriff, a really nice fella, gave me the background on Toby. We did his paperwork together. He said there were certain extenuating circumstances that might cause the county to bury him. Then he told me that you did this, which is what you’re doing now. I bought Toby a headstone and the Sheriff pitched in, but he doesn’t want you to know.”

  “How much did you spend?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Please. It does. I’m beholden to none. I’ll square it with you in time.”

  “Well, Laney, shit. I told the Sheriff to give me a hundred-dollar bill and that I would take care of the rest. All you have to do is go tell them at YOUR MONUMENT what you want the headstone to say. You have tons of room…”

  “Dr. Youngman? Please? The price?”

  He didn’t want to say and I could tell it. He’d gone completely above and beyond.

  “Four thousand five hundred twenty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents on the nose.”

  Holy hell. I can’t pay that back. Dr. Youngman was waiting for that.

  “Laney, you don’t have to pay it back. I tell you what. I’ve got my shovel in the pickup, let’s do Toby this service and you can tell me all about him. Then we’ll toast him from my cooler.”

  “Shouldn’t doctors drive better vehicles?”

  “I can’t work on those. I can work on this one. It reminds me of my dad.”

  “Okay. Sounds good. Let’s do it. You drink beer and I’ll drink bourbon, which was my previous plan anyway. I have some Jack in the truck.”

  “Deal. Let’s get started.”

  It didn’t take long and he knew what he was doing, how to shape it after I dug it. Watching him work you wouldn’t know he was a physician and labored inside a clinic. His movements were quick, his body strong, the man barely breaking a sweat. I turned the engine off and got down to help as he put our chore in perspective.

  “Ironic, isn’t it Laney? When the Sheriff was born people buried their own and now they’re completely separate. It’s all pre-prepared, sterilized and pretty, and we stand by a coffin and then by a grave without their deaths really sinking in. We’re now doing what my great grandparents did, though they didn’t have your machine. Picks and shovels and the knowhow of work when labor was done in the open. I’m goofy and nostalgic I guess. Must be getting old.”

  “And in my business I’m considered behind the times because I don’t modernize my equipment. How modern do I have to be? I’m by myself all damn day.”

  “Please don’t repeat this story. We had a baby stillborn and I wanted to bury it. Dig the hole like we’re doing here. On my own property, surrounded by family, in our own personal way. I circumvented the bureaucracy, because I could, and someone got wind of my deception. A form wasn’t filed and some fucking pencil pusher summoned the health department, who then contacted the police. They raided the goddamned funeral. On my property. In our back yard. With guns drawn. I did thirty days. I could’ve gotten out of it, they only wanted an apology, but I told the elected official, who pushed the bill through the senate in Montgomery…well, you can imagine what I told him. Rita was proud of me. Pleased I did the time.”

  “I would’ve been proud also.”

  “Franklin and Jefferson never thought C students would run the country at large. Though they continue to be elected.”

  “Amen,” I replied. “Amen.”

  We tarped it for rain, my normal procedure, loaded the backhoe and chained it down. Dr. Youngman said “Laney, go by Remount Tire and I’ll be glad to shoe your trailer. You need new tires. Let me do that.”

  “Thank you, but again, no thank you, you’ve gone way beyond generosity.” He replied “Laney, I just want to help. I’m not a perverted old man.” Flain Youngman smiled and it flashed across him, he’d embarrassed himself with the comment, while gazing down my body. It was fine and strangely exciting. Of course then he verbalized his guilt.

  “Laney. I’m sorry. Here you are burying the love of your life and I’m ogling because you’re beautiful. That was a natural, respectful reaction, to being here with a woman like you. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I’m old enough to be your father.”

  It felt good to receive his ogle. A gentlemanly ogle at that. “Flain, you’re 47. I’m only 23. I’m more than certain that women half your age find you attractive in those clinics.”

  He grinned. “Not with red hair and blue eyes. And especially not where we’re sitting. Doing what we’ve just done. I’m not very social, not since Rita, she meant everything to me.”

  “Drink?”

  “I have paper cups. Also brought ice in the cooler.”

  I got the Jack from my vehicle, twisted off the top, and waited for Flain to crush ice. Again, those friggin’ hands. He’d frozen water in milk jugs, was cutting them open, and shearing off chunks for our drinks. Collapsing the difficult, frozen solid blocks, by vising them between his palms. My dirty little mouth came through.

  “I’d hate to fucking see you start an IV on a granny with collapsed tiny veins.”

  “Sorry. They’re both like bricks. When Rita and I first met we were on a blind date and I was poor, so I met her at IHOP. Night breakfast. Very romantic. I ordered coffee and they brought it in a twelve-ounce mug, which I proceeded to crush in my hands while telling an unfunny joke. Rita thought that I would bind her, throw her in my trunk, and she’d never be heard from again. We were married six weeks later.”

  “I wouldn’t want to upset you Dr. Youngman.”

  “You couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m easy.”

  He got it down to cubes without using a hammer and I joked about his dirty hands. He’d made mittens out of pieces of milk carton and never even touched the ice.

  “Laney, is the service tomorrow?”

  “If you attend you’ll be number three. Me, the Sheriff and you. We can have it when it’s convenient. I don’t guess I want much on his tombstone. I have to think about what to say.”


  “They weren’t busy at YOUR MONUMENT. Trust me. And Toby’s people?”

  “They could care less.”

  This was upsetting to him. His face turned red and he apologized and then tore the handle from the cooler. I didn’t want to get wet, then it happened. Those hands. Those big brutal hands.

  4.

  Toby was buried. His headstone was incredible. So big and broad and with sufficient space to chisel a chapter from a book. Flain asked if I’d prefer a quote or something and I replied “I’d like to say that I loved him. Put his name and the date of his birth, without the month and the day of his death. Is that acceptable?”

  “It is,” he replied. “You’ve experienced what I experienced. You had what Rita and myself knew well. Lucky us, we found love early. Put that in words and let it be done.”

  His headstone read as follows: TOBY FUME WAS BORN ON A PERFECT SUNDAY FEW TOO MANY YEARS AGO. I AM ME, THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM, AND TOBY FUME LOVED ME BACK. THE YEAR IS 2017. MY WORLD FEELS EMPTY WITHOUT HIM. WE GO ON. WE BOTH GO ON. Laney McComb

  I changed my mind ten times and Flain was patient with each. I waited three more days before we buried Toby. On the day that I chose to have the graveside service it was me, the Sheriff and Flain. That, I will never forget. Isn’t it funny how certain times in a life the quality of people is revealed? Friends are never inconvenienced. They will always be there no matter. Until Flain I only knew two. The Sheriff and Toby and now here we are burying Toby and I have to speak: “thank you both for coming. Toby’s friends were few because of me and I think the reason is he loved me. He wanted to be right beside me. My everyday job is to make their graves but it’s never been to bury the man that I love and I’m glad I can say that. Like you said Flain, there are few too many, that know what we’ve experienced. And Sheriff, you’re amongst that number. You loved your Martha and she loved you. Perhaps you’d both agree with me, that it was never a chore to know the Toby’s and the Rita’s and the Martha’s of this world we inhabit. I’ve not been one to talk directly to God. But since Toby died I started in my head and whatever it is that responds, it says Toby is right there with him…”

  “Amen,” the Sheriff said.

  “Stunning and beautiful,” added Flain.

  “Gentlemen, I can’t bear to bring the backhoe over here and I know for damn sure that the minister inside won’t roll up his sleeves and help me…”

  “He’s a fucking hypocrite asshole! He came to me with herpes and the clap! I’m sorry, Laney forgive me.”

  I didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. The Sheriff responded for me.

  “Perfectly alright Dr. Youngman. I’ve yanked the old bastard off his poor beaten wife at least twenty times in the past. He says he ain’t got a dime, but lawyers always get him off. Laney, we’ll cover and smooth it. Dr. Youngman do you mind?”

  “Love to help you Sheriff. Laney, go on home. We can stop by after.”

  “Thank you gentlemen. I didn’t get any food from the local churches, but I can grill us a steak when you arrive.”

  The Sheriff began to roll up his sleeves. Flain was already working. They both winked at me and said “see you there” and I left to return to my house. Toby was buried. It was over. There were memories, photos and messages. Nothing else remained.

  This is not a dream. Fast forward three months and I don’t see the Sheriff though Flain now writes me letters. He doesn’t like to text and has a funny flip phone that belongs in another decade. The letters are short and he keeps his distance like we can’t visit in public. I begin receiving postcards from all over the world but the postmark is eight miles away. China, India, Japan and Indonesia and then one from a business that makes false teeth and I know that Dr. Youngman is funny. When I see him on the road I wave, but he doesn’t wave back at me. He’s big, nerdy and cute as a button and I have to make a plan. It would seem desperate to trap him at home when all I want is conversation. Well, I think that’s what I want.

  I go into the clinic late on a Wednesday and by God, I’ll be happy to admit, I looked adorable in my new outfit. The weather cooled some and my wool knit skirt made me look like a porno librarian. And no, I’m not on the hunt. It’s time for my pelvic exam. If I happen to get Dr. Youngman and not the other lady, then I’ll be happy to spread my legs. Of course I know his specialty, both of his specialties, so this isn’t a roll of the dice. Into the clinic I go. I went to high school with the girl at the desk. She’s typical Remount, Alabama.

  “Hey Laney!”

  “Howdy girl. Need to get my yearly probing.”

  “Lord Jesus. Don’t we all. You’ve come to the right damn place. We got this big fella named Dr. Youngblood and he’s welcomed to probe me at will. I’ve been hopin’ I’d have some fuckin’ reason to get up in his stirrups. I’d trim the fuckin’ kitty, bear the pink fruit, and let ‘em make sure I’m fer-tile.”

  “Leeny, how many kids do you have?”

  “One for each baby daddy.”

  “So four?”

  “That would be co-rrect.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re sufficiently fer-tile.”

  “Still need to get the pussy examined. This cunt is a deadly tool. Goddamn, with this one, I’d do it in the bathroom. That or in his pickup. Lordy, he’s got big hands. And don’t you reckon a big fuckin’ dick?”

  “These things I do not reckon. Such things I can’t imply.”

  “What the fuck? You been readin’ again? You always loved that shit.”

  “Terrible habit isn’t it?”

  “I ain’t never took it up. Go down yonder in room number four. He’ll be in in a jiffy. Currently he’s fuckin’ with them goddamn Dorman’s. Motherfuckers is breedin’ again. Without even leavin’ their house.”

  She gave me my file, not a significant one, and I took it with me to the room. Sterile place. Scent of cleaners. Table with paper pulled out and ready and I can hear Dr. Youngman elsewhere. He says “well, Miss Dorman, unprotected sex tends to bring this on. How many children will this be?” The voice replied “eight, naw nine. Daddy is this’n number nine?” There was a gruff reply and then Dr. Youngblood said “sir, please no smoking.” The response was a loud “goddamn! I’m Amarican and ain’t this Amarica?” Dr. Youngblood said, rather kindly, that it was, but “there are laws. And we have to obey them,” which seemed to be accepted by the inbreeding Dorman clan.

  Leeny then stuck her head in. “Girl, go ahead and get them legs in them stirrups. Motherfuckin’ Prince Charmin’ has arrived.”

  When he came into the room my file wasn’t on the door. He walked into me sitting on the table and was instantly red with blushing. “Conflict of interests,” he announced. “Did you get my letters and postcards?”

  “You know I did. And did you get mine?”

  “Of course. I’ve made a collage.”

  We both laughed and he admitted he’d never been to those places and that he’d ordered the cards off the web. I replied “well, I tell you, it was awfully exciting to be teased from eight miles away in Remount. My mouth was watering just thinking that some wealthy doctor was out there in exotica, while I was stuck here travel lusting and digging my graves with the backhoe.”

  “Those were exactly my intentions.”

  I caught his glance again, appreciating my skirt and I could tell he didn’t know what to think, about my outfit or my brand new haircut. How to proceed with the issue before us. He then did what he did shortly after saying what Flain Youngman needed to say.

  “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

  “I’m comfortable. Are you uncomfortable?”

  I’m lying. I’m not comfortable. I want Flain to put me in those stirrups and drive my head through the wall. When my first forty orgasms are over and done and he’s ravaged my innards with his penis THEN I WILL BE FUCKING COMFORTABLE!

  “Let me step from the room and you put on a gown. When you’re ready I’ll come back in.”

  “Give me three minutes and I’m set.”
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br />   I responded too bright and cheery. His hands were shaking and mine were also. Attraction, primal attraction, holds no rules, but with me it’s held age, and this is my first older man. Of course all I’ve known is Toby. But I do have friends of mine that won’t look unless they’re young, shaved and tan with perfect white teeth and muscles that tense when you touch them. Usually, and this is rude, when you’re screwing a man like that, he’s usually busy fucking himself, and has no interest in you. I prefer to be more than a sperm receptacle and Dr. Flain Youngman is hot. HOfuckingT!

  He goes out and I immediately strip down. Shit, I can’t wait to get naked. I smell him in the room and I ask myself if I’ve become one of those Lifetime stalkers that eventually get their own specials. They could visit me in prison with all my penis drawings and me saying “I showed ‘em my love, by placing his head on velvet.” That, or maybe, I’ll simply ask Flain Youngman if he’d like to go on a date. No Lifetime special for Laney.

  “Knock-knock Laney! Are you ready?”

  “I am. Please enter good doctor.”

  There’s no nurse to assist and that’s really exciting because I’ve seen fifty pornos like this. Right now I should say “Dr. Waddy Wad Wad, it hurts really bad right here.” I’d point at my vagina and he would respond “why Sexlina, I need to flesh probe you. Let me find my dongoscope!”

  “Laney, hop up in the stirrups. Would you like me to turn my back?”

  My first thought is “Dr. Youngman, throw me in the stirrups if you’d like. Shortly after I swallow your cock.” Instead I reply “that will be fine” and he does and then I’m before him, my calves half cupped and my legs apart, and he can see where he’s going if he’ll look. Before him on the table are the tools of his exam and he’s fingering each one with familiarity.

  “Ready dear?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Give me a second to get it all in order. I’m sure you’re healthy. Don’t worry.”

  “I am but I like to check.”

  There’s a pause in his workings and I can tell he’s thinking while he glances at my chart and inspects it. There’s a few, basic, fundamental questions and I answer them as plainly as I can.